Baloney.
No-- BALOGNA.
Mr. Bojangles restaurants are advertising a new bologna biscuit. When I saw the sign, I almost gagged. Who was the genius who came up with that one? And thus my point is proved--it's not that hard. A nice fluffy biscuit, a slimy slice of circular piece-meat. Splice the two together, and voila! Who wouldn't love that?
I've been using that phrase for years now. People look at me funny whenever I say it, but the reality is that if YOU know how to do something, then for you it's truly not that hard. I have a friend who writes books for other people. She listens to their stories and then writes the books, not in her own voice, but theirs. Wow! I stand amazed, but for her, it's not that hard.
I have another friend who lights up every room she enters. She knows how to connect with people she's never even met. She enjoys fascinating conversation wherever she goes. It's a gift, and for her, it's not that hard.
I don't profess that everything is easy. Surely it's not! I only marvel at how a national company like Bojangles can inspire people to ingest something that barely passes as food and even fool them into thinking they are in fact eating a new and improved gourmet treat. Trust me, you cannot improve on the Chick-fil-A chicken biscuit. But somebody somewhere presented this idea. And somebody sitting across the table from them said, "Yeah, that might work." And somebody else bought an entire log of wax-wrapped bologna, peeled it slice by slice, and said, "OK, we're doing this." Who would have thought? Now, if I may suggest...A single slice of processed cheese? It has a wrapper. I'm not sure if it's actually food, but yes, that might work, too. A bologna and CHEESE biscuit!
See? It's not that hard.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Protector of the House
We have a dog.
I used to say, "I'm not a dog person." In fact, I've had a cat (or two) all my life and as far back as I can remember. However, I would never say, "I'm a cat person." That just sounds creepy. But secretly, I love cats. I love that they are soft and clean themselves and are for the most part, independent. It is what I wish for my children. And my husband. My husband isn't even a "pet person", which I think is a tragedy in itself. He never so much as even had a gerbil or a fish...or for that matter, even a turtle. I think every child should have a pet, lest they start collecting rocks and talking to them as if they understand. That's how people become crazy and end up in asylums. All because they never had a little pet that they could love and that would love them back.
After losing two cats at this address in less than two years, I began to re-think having a cat. In this neighborhood, I might as well be a murderer or at least a conspirator to murder, what with the way cats mysteriously disappear and all. Hungry coyotes view them as a snack pack in the purest sense of the phrase.
Last April, my daughter was taking a walk down our street with a friend from out of town. They came home with a dog.
I saw that dog, a handsome little thing, all neatly groomed and happy. The kids immediately all wanted to take turns holding him, and he just let them. They were all in his face being completely obnoxious, and he just licked them. We kept him around all that day. He didn't beg at the table, was obviously leash trained, and clearly had once belonged to someone. I sent my daughter back down the street to find out where this dog lived. Another neighbor told us what he witnessed: a blond haired woman in a white SUV tossed him out the passenger door in the cul-de-sac the night before. What? Who would do such a thing?
I guess it doesn't really matter. What matters is that my sweet, tender-hearted daughter saw a dog, picked him up, and brought him home with every intent to keep and care for him. Did I mention that I am not a dog person?
Three weeks prior to this event I had a dream, a dream so vivid and disturbing that I ventured to write it down in my journal. In the dream, I was pregnant and gave birth to a baby boy. (As a side note, I feel like our family is complete, and I have no plans to become pregnant, nor can I, as things have been "taken care of" in that area.) In the dream, I named my little boy, "Hammond". Where did this name come from? I know of no one who goes by this name, and yet this dream was very real.
The next morning, I typed "Hammond name meaning" into Google on my computer. It means "Protector of the House." Interesting, I thought. Surely, I dreamed this dream for a reason. And sure enough, three weeks later, here comes this little dog. And aren't dogs the "protectors of the house?"
We call him Hammy; he's a five-pound Yorkshire Terrier. He's the "cat" of the dog world.
Coincidence. Or God's gift to us? I'm choosing to thank God for this precious gift because every child should have a pet to care for and love, even if he is a little stinky.
I used to say, "I'm not a dog person." In fact, I've had a cat (or two) all my life and as far back as I can remember. However, I would never say, "I'm a cat person." That just sounds creepy. But secretly, I love cats. I love that they are soft and clean themselves and are for the most part, independent. It is what I wish for my children. And my husband. My husband isn't even a "pet person", which I think is a tragedy in itself. He never so much as even had a gerbil or a fish...or for that matter, even a turtle. I think every child should have a pet, lest they start collecting rocks and talking to them as if they understand. That's how people become crazy and end up in asylums. All because they never had a little pet that they could love and that would love them back.
After losing two cats at this address in less than two years, I began to re-think having a cat. In this neighborhood, I might as well be a murderer or at least a conspirator to murder, what with the way cats mysteriously disappear and all. Hungry coyotes view them as a snack pack in the purest sense of the phrase.
Last April, my daughter was taking a walk down our street with a friend from out of town. They came home with a dog.
I saw that dog, a handsome little thing, all neatly groomed and happy. The kids immediately all wanted to take turns holding him, and he just let them. They were all in his face being completely obnoxious, and he just licked them. We kept him around all that day. He didn't beg at the table, was obviously leash trained, and clearly had once belonged to someone. I sent my daughter back down the street to find out where this dog lived. Another neighbor told us what he witnessed: a blond haired woman in a white SUV tossed him out the passenger door in the cul-de-sac the night before. What? Who would do such a thing?
I guess it doesn't really matter. What matters is that my sweet, tender-hearted daughter saw a dog, picked him up, and brought him home with every intent to keep and care for him. Did I mention that I am not a dog person?
Three weeks prior to this event I had a dream, a dream so vivid and disturbing that I ventured to write it down in my journal. In the dream, I was pregnant and gave birth to a baby boy. (As a side note, I feel like our family is complete, and I have no plans to become pregnant, nor can I, as things have been "taken care of" in that area.) In the dream, I named my little boy, "Hammond". Where did this name come from? I know of no one who goes by this name, and yet this dream was very real.
The next morning, I typed "Hammond name meaning" into Google on my computer. It means "Protector of the House." Interesting, I thought. Surely, I dreamed this dream for a reason. And sure enough, three weeks later, here comes this little dog. And aren't dogs the "protectors of the house?"
We call him Hammy; he's a five-pound Yorkshire Terrier. He's the "cat" of the dog world.
Coincidence. Or God's gift to us? I'm choosing to thank God for this precious gift because every child should have a pet to care for and love, even if he is a little stinky.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Readers are Learners
My favorite genre of literature is Historical Fiction, followed closely by Memoirs. I'm not even sure that's a real genre, but incidentally this type of book can also be classified as... "historical fiction." I love it. I love being transported into that place that seems so far away and different from the place I live, only to discover that in fact it is very much the same. I love the first realization, the first epiphany, the first "aha", yes, these people who lived so very long ago are just like me. I love to highlight interesting passages and thought-provoking phrases. I'm savoring the words and the wisdom.
I just finished reading Victor Hugo's Les Miserables, the epic tale of life and death in early nineteenth century France. The political and religious commentary and essays on free education and love and marriage kept me riveted to the page--actually all 1201 pages of it. I loved each and every one. Some of the lines I highlighted in the beginning of my book:
"...there are plenty of tongues that gossip and few minds that think." p. 20
"...there is always more misery in the depths than compassion in the heights." p.25
"Teach the ignorant as much as you can. Society is to blame for not giving free education; it is responsible for the darkness it creates. The soul in darkness sins, but the real sinner is he who caused the darkness." p.30
"The beautiful is as useful as the useful. More so, perhaps." p.38
"I was not put into this world to preserve my life but to protect souls." p. 41
"And after all, in this house what have we to fear? There is always Someone with us who is stronger. The devil may visit us, but God lives here. p. 47
"...there are no trifles in the human story....It is the lineaments of the years which form the countenance of the century." p. 123
All this and I had only just barely scratched the surface. It's one of the reasons why I have never understood the person who says, "I am just not a reader." Not a reader? And, my goodness, why NOT? Haven't you ever heard the phrase, "Readers are learners and learners are leaders"? Surely there must always be people who are willing to lead and by default, people who are willing to follow. I just always thought that even a follower should only do so if they trust that the person who is leading is doing a fine job with the situation at hand. They must believe wholeheartedly that the person leads with both knowledge and conviction. In order to have this guarantee, you MUST do some work on your own. You must be willing to learn, to take information and integrate it into what you know, then assimilate it into the framework of your life.
Our lives are but a breath, and yet in the inhale and exhale of our human story there are no small moments. In the pages that make up our lives, I want mine to be filled with wisdom and intellect and relationships and love. I want to remain riveted to that fine page, basking in the warmth of the words that are my day, looking forward to the next, since I know it is building towards an amazing climax. I will relish the time it takes to get there, never skipping ahead. And I will continue to read. I will continue to learn. I will continue to lead.
I just finished reading Victor Hugo's Les Miserables, the epic tale of life and death in early nineteenth century France. The political and religious commentary and essays on free education and love and marriage kept me riveted to the page--actually all 1201 pages of it. I loved each and every one. Some of the lines I highlighted in the beginning of my book:
"...there are plenty of tongues that gossip and few minds that think." p. 20
"...there is always more misery in the depths than compassion in the heights." p.25
"Teach the ignorant as much as you can. Society is to blame for not giving free education; it is responsible for the darkness it creates. The soul in darkness sins, but the real sinner is he who caused the darkness." p.30
"The beautiful is as useful as the useful. More so, perhaps." p.38
"I was not put into this world to preserve my life but to protect souls." p. 41
"And after all, in this house what have we to fear? There is always Someone with us who is stronger. The devil may visit us, but God lives here. p. 47
"...there are no trifles in the human story....It is the lineaments of the years which form the countenance of the century." p. 123
All this and I had only just barely scratched the surface. It's one of the reasons why I have never understood the person who says, "I am just not a reader." Not a reader? And, my goodness, why NOT? Haven't you ever heard the phrase, "Readers are learners and learners are leaders"? Surely there must always be people who are willing to lead and by default, people who are willing to follow. I just always thought that even a follower should only do so if they trust that the person who is leading is doing a fine job with the situation at hand. They must believe wholeheartedly that the person leads with both knowledge and conviction. In order to have this guarantee, you MUST do some work on your own. You must be willing to learn, to take information and integrate it into what you know, then assimilate it into the framework of your life.
Our lives are but a breath, and yet in the inhale and exhale of our human story there are no small moments. In the pages that make up our lives, I want mine to be filled with wisdom and intellect and relationships and love. I want to remain riveted to that fine page, basking in the warmth of the words that are my day, looking forward to the next, since I know it is building towards an amazing climax. I will relish the time it takes to get there, never skipping ahead. And I will continue to read. I will continue to learn. I will continue to lead.
Monday, July 4, 2011
My Mother's Prayers
Never underestimate the power of a prayer. I've been praying since I was old enough to talk. I've always loved words, and I love literature especially. I find great power in the words that I read. Nuances, cadence, and intonation all serve to convey emotion in a story. They are part of the story, the words but the part that isn't really words as well. I understand this when I'm reading a book, and yet when I'm talking to God or even THINKING about talking to God, I sometimes don't do it because I don't have the words. Thankfully, God knows our hearts. He knows our anxious thoughts, and I don't have to think, write, or say a single word for him to perceive exactly what I need or want.
In recent weeks, this idea has become very clear to me. Over my lifetime, I feel like I've "barely prayed" if that makes any sense, and yet God has answered my prayers in VERY REAL ways. In high school, I prayed that God would give me a husband that loved God more than he loved me. And he did. After I married, I prayed that God would one day give me a daughter. And he gave me two. I prayed that as a family we would be able to both hear and heed God's direction for our lives. And he brought us to Canton, Georgia. Most of my life, I've barely prayed and yet God has heard me and answered me.
My children are just now learning to pray. When they hear me talk to God, they hear me asking him to help them grow into people that love Him and love others. Those two things are really all I ever hope for them. Reading a biography of Abraham Lincoln recently, I became intrigued by his religious views. Although he clearly believed in God Almighty, he did not affiliate with any particular American denomination or church. This is what he said: "When any church will inscribe over its altar, as its sole qualification for membership, the Savior's condensed statement of the substance of both law and Gospel, 'Thou shalt love the lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul and thy neighbor as thyself' that church will I join with all my heart and all my soul." Yes, that is what I hope for my children as well!
Lincoln also penned these words: "I remember my mother's prayers, and they have always followed me. They have clung to me all my life." I love the imagery of the prayers following him, on his heels, literally clinging to him all his life. Even if he wanted to, he could not fling them away. They were a part of him because God heard his mother's prayer. He answered her by giving little Abraham Lincoln a heart wholly devoted to God and others. At a very pivotal and divisive time in our country's history, there stood a man whose mother's prayers enabled him to lead a nation on the brink of destroying itself and knit it back together. I stand inspired by his testimony. If God can answer me when I "barely pray", I wonder what he will do when I pray with such sticky conviction that my words endure the generations.
In recent weeks, this idea has become very clear to me. Over my lifetime, I feel like I've "barely prayed" if that makes any sense, and yet God has answered my prayers in VERY REAL ways. In high school, I prayed that God would give me a husband that loved God more than he loved me. And he did. After I married, I prayed that God would one day give me a daughter. And he gave me two. I prayed that as a family we would be able to both hear and heed God's direction for our lives. And he brought us to Canton, Georgia. Most of my life, I've barely prayed and yet God has heard me and answered me.
My children are just now learning to pray. When they hear me talk to God, they hear me asking him to help them grow into people that love Him and love others. Those two things are really all I ever hope for them. Reading a biography of Abraham Lincoln recently, I became intrigued by his religious views. Although he clearly believed in God Almighty, he did not affiliate with any particular American denomination or church. This is what he said: "When any church will inscribe over its altar, as its sole qualification for membership, the Savior's condensed statement of the substance of both law and Gospel, 'Thou shalt love the lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul and thy neighbor as thyself' that church will I join with all my heart and all my soul." Yes, that is what I hope for my children as well!
Lincoln also penned these words: "I remember my mother's prayers, and they have always followed me. They have clung to me all my life." I love the imagery of the prayers following him, on his heels, literally clinging to him all his life. Even if he wanted to, he could not fling them away. They were a part of him because God heard his mother's prayer. He answered her by giving little Abraham Lincoln a heart wholly devoted to God and others. At a very pivotal and divisive time in our country's history, there stood a man whose mother's prayers enabled him to lead a nation on the brink of destroying itself and knit it back together. I stand inspired by his testimony. If God can answer me when I "barely pray", I wonder what he will do when I pray with such sticky conviction that my words endure the generations.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
God's Great Big World
Recently, I was perusing the Sunday paper and came across a question addressed to Ask Marilyn in the Parade Magazine. The question: "Is it really true that no two snowflakes are alike?" And her answer, "The answer is surely yes. But no two pigeons are alike, either. Or pickles or porpoises or anything else for that matter. For example, consider the human population, which is rapidly approaching seven billion. Do any of us look exactly alike? Nope--not even identical twins."
Wow. I stand in awe of a truly amazing God that literally created an infinite number of species infinitely unique. Who else could do that except a great big loving God?
Once, while traveling with my three year old through our neighborhood, we passed the pond that is in fact just a golf course water hazard. Ducks were swimming there. She looked over there at them, and she said, "Mom, look at that big giant ocean with those chickens in it." Big giant ocean? Chickens? Not quite. That pond is maybe an acre, if not less. With oceans covering more than 141 MILLION square miles of the earth's surface, she just told me that she has a pretty small view of the planet. And chickens? More than 10,000 species of birds inhabit the earth, and to her apparently they all look like chickens. Chickens! Really?
I was thinking about this conversation recently, and I realized that it's not just children that do this. I do it, too. The world is a great big place, but I've only seen a tiny part of it. In my mind, I know there's more out there (there has to be!) and yet, I'm content to think sometimes that my neighborhood represents the population of the planet. I have friends who travel the globe, pouring their lives and their pocketbooks into the lives of those less fortunate. Their stories are profound, and their pictures truly speak a thousand words. Downtrodden, poor, fatherless, all the things that I am not, and yet my tiny worldview keeps me from calling them what they are. I only have the words that I know, and this is what they sound like,
"Wow. You know someone who walks five miles a day to get water for their family?" I just walked across the room.
"You met someone who doesn't have any shoes?" I don't have any shoes that match this outfit.
"You hugged a child that has never met his mommy?" I need to remember to hug mine when she gets home from school today.
"What? What's that you say? There is no school?" And I'm praying that my baby will get in a class this Fall with some friends she knows.
Just typing these words make me sick. What a small, small view of the world I have!
The world is big, but my big giant ocean is right here in this neighborhood and all those chickens are the people who live next door to me. (Now that's a little ironic!) I may not be traveling around the world, but I can do my part right here, right next door. Opportunities are all around me. When I stop thinking of my surroundings as the big giant ocean and instead the small pond that it is, maybe I won't be so overwhelmed. Maybe instead of thinking of everyone else as a chicken I'll be able to identify the real chicken--me. It's time to get my ducks in a row.
Wow. I stand in awe of a truly amazing God that literally created an infinite number of species infinitely unique. Who else could do that except a great big loving God?
Once, while traveling with my three year old through our neighborhood, we passed the pond that is in fact just a golf course water hazard. Ducks were swimming there. She looked over there at them, and she said, "Mom, look at that big giant ocean with those chickens in it." Big giant ocean? Chickens? Not quite. That pond is maybe an acre, if not less. With oceans covering more than 141 MILLION square miles of the earth's surface, she just told me that she has a pretty small view of the planet. And chickens? More than 10,000 species of birds inhabit the earth, and to her apparently they all look like chickens. Chickens! Really?
I was thinking about this conversation recently, and I realized that it's not just children that do this. I do it, too. The world is a great big place, but I've only seen a tiny part of it. In my mind, I know there's more out there (there has to be!) and yet, I'm content to think sometimes that my neighborhood represents the population of the planet. I have friends who travel the globe, pouring their lives and their pocketbooks into the lives of those less fortunate. Their stories are profound, and their pictures truly speak a thousand words. Downtrodden, poor, fatherless, all the things that I am not, and yet my tiny worldview keeps me from calling them what they are. I only have the words that I know, and this is what they sound like,
"Wow. You know someone who walks five miles a day to get water for their family?" I just walked across the room.
"You met someone who doesn't have any shoes?" I don't have any shoes that match this outfit.
"You hugged a child that has never met his mommy?" I need to remember to hug mine when she gets home from school today.
"What? What's that you say? There is no school?" And I'm praying that my baby will get in a class this Fall with some friends she knows.
Just typing these words make me sick. What a small, small view of the world I have!
The world is big, but my big giant ocean is right here in this neighborhood and all those chickens are the people who live next door to me. (Now that's a little ironic!) I may not be traveling around the world, but I can do my part right here, right next door. Opportunities are all around me. When I stop thinking of my surroundings as the big giant ocean and instead the small pond that it is, maybe I won't be so overwhelmed. Maybe instead of thinking of everyone else as a chicken I'll be able to identify the real chicken--me. It's time to get my ducks in a row.
Monday, March 14, 2011
My First Last Time
Someone gave me a book right after I gave birth to my fourth child. The book, Let Me Hold You Longer by Karen Kingsbury begins by talking about the miracle of firsts: first smiles and teeth and baby steps, but quickly turns the message of the book into the memories of a lifetime of lasts...the last time her baby woke up crying, wanted to be rocked, etc. It ends with these words:
"I'll watch you leave and think how fast our time together passed.
Let me hold on longer, God, to every precious last."
Receiving this book at just five days post-partum, I quickly became a basket case of tears. I knew this child would be my last, and her name, Cari Jill, which literally means "Youth Flowing Like Water" reminds me every day of the precious gift that is her life. It's easy to wish away the moments, the days, the years as we yearn for a time when things will be easier, when our children will be more independent, or when we can finally realize the wishes that hover in our personal dreams. Cari Jill is just three years old, and truly I have treasured every minute. I give thanks to God everyday that he has allowed me to be her mother.
This week, however, I spent time with another mother, a mother who has just one child, a child dying of cancer. I was with this family the night before their son died, and all I could think was, "This is their last time to touch his hand, to hold him tight, to tell him that they love him." In a very real sense, this mother was holding on to what was literally going to be her "precious last." It was a very intimate and personal time, and I was an intruder. I wanted to take a picture of these two parents in the bed with their son, holding onto him for dear life while at the same time begging him to run into Jesus' arms. The dichotomy of the agony was riveting.
"I've watched you grow and barely noticed
seasons as they pass.
If I could freeze the hands of time,
I'd hold on to your lasts."
We are a society wholly focused on the firsts. We want to be the first-born, the first in line, the first place winner. In our quest to be first, we overlook the value of what it means to be last. And yet, here we are thanking God for this last time, a lifetime. What an honor and a privilege for me to be there at the last!
We know that this world is not our home, and although God has given us houses, and things, and CHILDREN even, they do not belong to us either. It all belongs to God, and our treasure is with him in Heaven. For my friends, the thing they loved the most, their only son, is there. He is in Heaven, and though they loved him here on earth, surely they can accept his new life in Heaven. Now, he is treasure there. Finding comfort in God's word, we read, "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy , and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."
Yes, their treasure is in heaven. Those words have new meaning for this family. And it was nothing short of pure privilege for me to hold onto them as they were holding onto their son and Jesus was wrapping his arms around all of us.
Although it was the last time we held this child on earth, I pray that God's grace will sustain this mother because it wasn't really her last time. Thankfully, God's kingdom is eternal. It has no beginning and no end. Last times are painful and full of sorrow. In 2 Corinthians 5:1, however, it says, "Now we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands." Perhaps that sorrow and that empty place left there by this child's passing will one day be replaced with the joy of the gift that was his life and the peace of knowing that he is with Jesus and that one day we will be too.
My first last time gave me new perspective on the events that shape a lifetime.
"I'll watch you leave and think how fast our time together passed.
Let me hold on longer, God, to every precious last."
Receiving this book at just five days post-partum, I quickly became a basket case of tears. I knew this child would be my last, and her name, Cari Jill, which literally means "Youth Flowing Like Water" reminds me every day of the precious gift that is her life. It's easy to wish away the moments, the days, the years as we yearn for a time when things will be easier, when our children will be more independent, or when we can finally realize the wishes that hover in our personal dreams. Cari Jill is just three years old, and truly I have treasured every minute. I give thanks to God everyday that he has allowed me to be her mother.
This week, however, I spent time with another mother, a mother who has just one child, a child dying of cancer. I was with this family the night before their son died, and all I could think was, "This is their last time to touch his hand, to hold him tight, to tell him that they love him." In a very real sense, this mother was holding on to what was literally going to be her "precious last." It was a very intimate and personal time, and I was an intruder. I wanted to take a picture of these two parents in the bed with their son, holding onto him for dear life while at the same time begging him to run into Jesus' arms. The dichotomy of the agony was riveting.
"I've watched you grow and barely noticed
seasons as they pass.
If I could freeze the hands of time,
I'd hold on to your lasts."
We are a society wholly focused on the firsts. We want to be the first-born, the first in line, the first place winner. In our quest to be first, we overlook the value of what it means to be last. And yet, here we are thanking God for this last time, a lifetime. What an honor and a privilege for me to be there at the last!
We know that this world is not our home, and although God has given us houses, and things, and CHILDREN even, they do not belong to us either. It all belongs to God, and our treasure is with him in Heaven. For my friends, the thing they loved the most, their only son, is there. He is in Heaven, and though they loved him here on earth, surely they can accept his new life in Heaven. Now, he is treasure there. Finding comfort in God's word, we read, "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy , and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."
Yes, their treasure is in heaven. Those words have new meaning for this family. And it was nothing short of pure privilege for me to hold onto them as they were holding onto their son and Jesus was wrapping his arms around all of us.
Although it was the last time we held this child on earth, I pray that God's grace will sustain this mother because it wasn't really her last time. Thankfully, God's kingdom is eternal. It has no beginning and no end. Last times are painful and full of sorrow. In 2 Corinthians 5:1, however, it says, "Now we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands." Perhaps that sorrow and that empty place left there by this child's passing will one day be replaced with the joy of the gift that was his life and the peace of knowing that he is with Jesus and that one day we will be too.
My first last time gave me new perspective on the events that shape a lifetime.
Steal, Kill, and Destroy?
I have written previously of our young friend dying of cancer. In the wake of what has been a particularly difficult week for their family, unanswered questions torture their souls. Why do some people have four healthy kids while we have just this one...and he's so sick? Why does it feel like God is healing everyone else's child while turning a blind eye to ours? Why? Why? Why? These questions are so perplexing because every time we see a sick person in the Bible crying out to Jesus for healing, he does it. I can't find a single example where Jesus turns a deaf ear or a blind eye to someone crying out for help. He was full of compassion and love. Even Lazarus, who died, Jesus eventually raised from the grave. Why isn't there an example where Jesus says to a friend, "I'm sorry. I just won't do it. "
I was thinking about these questions myself and talking them over with my husband one night after the kids had gone to bed. As I was pondering the implications, this is the verse that came into my heart: "The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full" (John 10:10). This horrible cancer is doing all those things--stealing the very breath from his body, killing vital organs, and destroying healthy cells day by day. Quite obviously, Jesus did not mean "life" as you and I know it. Otherwise, he would certainly intervene and perform a miracle right here. We were praying for it, begging for it.
I began to think, "Maybe 'life to the full' doesn't necessarily mean a physically healthy life. Intellectually, I've known this all along, but experiencing first-hand what seems to be deafening silence from God was a realization that was hard to swallow. I had to follow up my study with this verse found in 2 Corinthians 5:16-17: "Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all." That's God's desire for our lives--eternal glory that surpasses anything we could imagine here on earth. And that's something that, try as he might, Satan will NEVER be able to steal, kill, or destroy.
I was thinking about these questions myself and talking them over with my husband one night after the kids had gone to bed. As I was pondering the implications, this is the verse that came into my heart: "The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full" (John 10:10). This horrible cancer is doing all those things--stealing the very breath from his body, killing vital organs, and destroying healthy cells day by day. Quite obviously, Jesus did not mean "life" as you and I know it. Otherwise, he would certainly intervene and perform a miracle right here. We were praying for it, begging for it.
I began to think, "Maybe 'life to the full' doesn't necessarily mean a physically healthy life. Intellectually, I've known this all along, but experiencing first-hand what seems to be deafening silence from God was a realization that was hard to swallow. I had to follow up my study with this verse found in 2 Corinthians 5:16-17: "Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all." That's God's desire for our lives--eternal glory that surpasses anything we could imagine here on earth. And that's something that, try as he might, Satan will NEVER be able to steal, kill, or destroy.
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